The way she says "friend" makes it sound like a euphemism for something much more scandalous.
She disappears into the crowd before I can respond.
Across the room, another mom leans toward Courtney Walsh. Whispers something. Both of them look at Gemma, then at me.
Great.
This is going to be all over town by tonight. Micah's going to have a field day.
Across the room, Gemma accidentally knocks over a cup of paint water while gesturing enthusiastically about continental drift. She grabs paper towels, tries to mop it up, knocks over a container of googly eyes in the process.
Googly eyes everywhere. The floor looks like it's watching us.
Kids laugh. Parents stare. Gemma turns bright red and starts collecting googly eyes while apologizing to everyone within hearing distance.
"It's fine!" she says, voice too loud. "Totally fine! Googly eyes are very bouncy! That's their whole thing!"
A dad tries to help. "I think you got them all---"
"Did you know that dinosaurs probably couldn't see googly eyes?" Gemma blurts out. "Because googly eyes weren't invented yet. Obviously. Because dinosaurs were extinct. Which I already mentioned was sad."
The dad's smile freezes. He takes a small step backward, then another, nodding like he's agreeing with something profound while clearly planning his escape route.
Gemma spots me watching. Her smile is sheepish and a little desperate. The corner of my mouth moves before I can stop it.
Ivy appears at Gemma's side with her completed stegosaurus project---construction paper body, googly eyes, pipe cleaner tail, covered in tons of glitter.
"Look what I made!"
"That's amazing!" Gemma says, and the awkwardness vanishes. "Did you use thermoregulation theory for the plate placement?"
"YES!" Ivy launches into an explanation that involves hand gestures and sound effects.
Gemma listens like Ivy's explaining the secrets of the universe. Nods in all the right places. Asks follow-up questions like a pro.
I set the supply bag down on the edge of the table and tell myself I'm watching Ivy. I should not be cataloging this. Keeping a running tally of all the things she does that I keep noticing. The way the room gets louder when she's embarrassed and goes quieter when she's actually listening. The steadiness that shows up the moment the social fumbling drops away.
The guilt follows, automatic and familiar. Three years out of my marriage and I still feel it when I notice another woman.
Except I'm not married anymore. Haven't been for three years. Vanessa's moved on with her life in Seattle. Has everything figured out.
So why does noticing feel like cheating?
The event winds down. Parents collect their kids and their construction paper dinosaurs. Courtney corners me one more time to remind me about the potluck, and I make noncommittal sounds until she finally walks away.
Gemma helps Ivy gather her projects while I collect our bag. When we finally make it out to the parking lot, Ivy is clutching her stegosaurus like it's made of actual fossils.
"Can Gemma ride home with us?" Ivy asks.
"She has her own car."
"But what if her car gets LONELY without friends?"
"Cars don't have friends, bug."
"Mine does," Gemma says, grinning at Ivy. "My car's friends with your dad's truck. They probably hang out in the driveway and talk about oil changes."
Ivy giggles.
